I’ve always loved the lights and decorations at Christmas. There’s just something beautiful and magical about the glitter, the gaudiness, the overabundance of it all. Red, green, gold, and silver — sparkling, twinkling, flashing, shining — You just have to be happy this time of year despite the crowds and the traffic.
However, despite embracing the majority of Christmas tackiness as if it were the newest diet fad, I’ve never been fond of the whole idea of dressing in Christmasy attire. Oh, sure, wear a green velvet dress to Christmas dinner or a red sweater to a Christmas party, but beyond socks, which are always the exception to the rule, I just was never one of those people to dress in candy cane print pants or a Santa sweatshirt. Just not my thing.
However, in 2003, the fascist hospital I was working at had just relaxed it’s dress code among other rules — to give you an idea, the old dress code regulated the size of your earrings, said no one could wear boots, forbid holiday clothing and jewelry (including American flags), regulated the length of skirts, the hems of pants, and the height of heels, and even told you what nail polish and hair colors were unacceptable. Honestly, since 2001, practically everyone had been wearing American flag pins and other jewelry and management didn’t dare say anything. However, after a financial scandal and change in management in 2002, things had been changing and finally some things had loosened up, including the dress code. A memo had come out in 2003 that said folks could wear holiday jewelry and sweaters and actually express their holiday preferences for a change — no more fears of offending patients and their families who might be Jewish, Christian or something else.
I wanted to support my co-workers who were expressing themselves so I purchases what I thought was a lovely and relatively untacky Christmas cardigan for the office Christmas party.
I’ll never forget that day. December 12, 2003. It was a Friday. I went into work completely unsuspecting it would be any different from any other day or from any other office Christmas party. I was so wrong. They waited until I’d gone to the deli to get my coffee and muffin and sat back down at my desk; then they called me to go to the department HR office. I didn’t even have a chance to drink my coffee or eat my muffin.
When I got to that office, I was involuntarily terminated.
Yes, before the Christmas party. Yes, I put in money for both my supervisor’s gift and my director’s gift. It has always kind of stuck in my graw that I didn’t ask for my money for their gifts back and also the toaster I had donated to the office kitchen which my supervisor used every day to toast his bagels. (He also stole my gourmet salad dressing that had my name on it every day even when I caught him and asked him to stop.)
That day has always been one of the most traumatic and devastating days for me that I can remember. The sweater is forever tied to that memory, entangled in the humiliation and devastation of the events of that day. When I see the sweater, I always remember the day. I feel extreme anxiety, a crucification of worth, a questioning of ability, a crushing sense of humiliation. Yet, every year I take that sweater out of storage and I put it on and wear it to the office party almost daring history to repeat itself. Every year I tremble with anxiety and I pull the sleeves on and my chest aches so bad I can barely breathe as I pull the zipper up half way. Every year I wonder if this will be the year.
The truth is that my current job is far better than my last one and my current boss is a wonderful person. He’s not perfect, but he’s never been anything but nice to me. I’ve never heard a word of complaint about my work from my superiors or people outside the department. My only real problems come from my direct peers, who seem to be just as insecure as I am, and perhaps are even more paranoid.
Probably I have no reason to have an anxiety attack every year on the day of the Christmas party which should be a day of fun and celebration and joy. However, I’m holding onto that hurt and I find it hard to let go. I’ve tried. I want to forget and forgive. Well, I want to forgive, but not forget because if I forget it might happen to me again. However, if I don’t forget it, I can’t seem to forgive. Every time I think about it, every time I think about how they treated me just that day and the five years before that, I get angry and injured all over again.
And so that is what that Christmas sweater has come to mean to me and yet every year, I pull it out and wear it anyway because I want to face the fear, face the anxiety, and one day I want to wear the sweater and not remember.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
What a crappy, crappy way to do things. I’m sorry for your hurt.
Maybe rather than forcing the anxiety attack it’s time to give the sweater away, to tell yourself that you’re far enough beyond it and confident enough in your professional skills and qualifications that you don’t have to prove a damn thing to anyone anymore. I don’t know if it would ever be possible to wear it and not remember, but I hope it would be possible to find closure and move on.
Just my 2 cents from my faraway vantage. Ignore them if you like. Big hugs to you.
On the business retreat I took last week, we did a lot of personal values / corporate values worksheets — which was not as dreary as it sounds, since my company is probably one of a handful on Earth who actually get something out of retreats. And there I realized just how seriously, deeply bitter and paranoid I had become thanks to the last ten years of aquisitions, layoffs, aquisitions, and more layoffs.
It’s hard to let go of that anger and resentment (I know from experience), but I think Robin’s right. As long as your daring history to repeat itself again, you’re reliving that trauma over and over — except this time it’s self inflicted. Get another sweater.